Water Under The Bridge
by XThatsAProblemX
Summary: Sherlock has always kept his past a mystery, but when a strange letter is delivered, an old player returns to the game and John finally begins to understand. Set before The Reichenbach Fall. T for dark themes to come, rating may change later.
1. Chapter 1

I have had this idea kind of rattling around in my head for a few weeks. Set before The Reichenbach Fall. It might not be good or fully in character, but eh. Imagining new stories and such is a lot of what fan fiction is about.

It was past dark outside and the living room of 221B Baker Street was comfortably quiet. John was reading the paper in his chair and Sherlock, as usual, was thinking. They'd been sitting that way for almost an hour when a sound came from the table in the middle of the room. It was Sherlock's phone, but he didn't move to get it. Unsurprised, John picked it up and checked it for him.

"Text from Mycroft." He said. Knowing Sherlock wouldn't care either way, he opened the message and frowned. "It says Happy Birthday." He looked over at Sherlock, who was lying on the sofa and looking at the ceiling with his hands pressed together. He seemed not to hear anything John had said. "Is it your birthday, Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He glanced slightly in John's direction. Sighing, John repeated himself. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he thought about it. "It might be. Why?"

"Mycroft just texted Happy Birthday. Why didn't you say anything?"

"He was always better at remembering the less important things in life," Sherlock muttered.

"Not important? It's the day you were-… How old are you?" John stared at Sherlock until he finally shrugged.

"Doesn't matter." He turned back to looking at the ceiling. "Age is just a number used by most to suggest life experience and the possibility of higher knowledge. I know more than most men of any age and I didn't need a set amount of years to learn it all."

Bewildered, John couldn't think of any reply. He shook his head and sighed again. Picking up his laptop, he decided this new and ridiculous fact needed to be on his blog.

"Oh, don't do that!" Sherlock snapped, sitting up. "You're going to put that on your blog aren't you?" John didn't say anything, but continued to start his computer. "You are! People don't need to know that!"

"So suddenly you care what people think about you?" They locked eyes and John raised an eyebrow in taunting curiosity. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"No, I just don't believe in filling people's heads with useless rubbish and I don't want you contributing to the already horrifying epidemic." There was a moment of silence before John began to laugh.

"I see what this is about. Ever since you found out about Lestrade and Donovan reading the blog, you've been worried about them thinking you've got flaws," He kept chuckling. "You're self-conscious!" A look of complete offense and disgust came over Sherlock's face, making John laugh even harder.

"I am absolutely not!" He shouted. "This is ridiculous!" Suddenly, he leapt up from the couch and snatched the laptop from John's hands.

"Careful! That's expensive!" John got up and tried to snatch his computer back. Sherlock held it out of reach and started for the door only to be jerked backwards by John pulling hard on his shirt. He fell back, hitting John hard and just managing to stop the laptop from smashing into the floor. Making sure not to crush it, Sherlock held the computer to his chest and curled into a ball around it. "God, you're a child!" John screamed.

"I won't have you insulting me in front of the world!" John started slapping him on the back and tugging at his shirt again in an attempt to make him uncurl.

"You. Are. An. Idiot!" He accompanied every word with some kind of hit or shove, frustrated by how stupid the whole thing was.

"Say you won't mention me not knowing my birthday!"

"It doesn't matter! You even said it yourself!"

"Give me your word!"

"It's stupid! Just admit that you care what they all think of you and I won't say anything!"

"Fine, I care!"

"Say it like you mean it!" John held tight to Sherlock's shirt and began shaking him back and forth.

"But I don't!" His shirt ripped apart just as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat.

"Boys!" They both stopped immediately. "What in God's name are the two of you up to?!" Both of them began shouting at the same time.

"John was going to post that-"

"Sherlock's trying to break-"

"Stop!" She sighed and pushed John away from Sherlock. "Give it here." She held out her hand for John's computer. Sherlock sat up and handed it to her obediently.

"But-" She ignored John's protests and snatched the laptop.

"No! I'll take it until you two can calm down. Fighting over God knows what, making a big racket at this hour and crashing around on my ceiling! Dust is falling like rain down there and it'll be going on your rent if the whole thing falls!" John looked over at Sherlock. They were both quiet, still panting from their fight. His eyes met Sherlock's and they both chuckled. Mrs. Hudson looked at them disapprovingly and they stopped laughing, but continued to smirk at one another.

"You have to admit that whole thing was a bit stupid," John said after a moment. Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't have to admit anything. That's the point," He replied with a smug grin. Mrs. Hudson sighed again loudly at both of them and pulled an envelope out of the pocket of her cardigan.

"The doorbell was ringing while you two were busy attacking each other. Some messenger with this for you, Sherlock." She held out a small lavender envelope and Sherlock took it. "Now you two calm down. You'll get this back later." She gestured to the laptop and tucked it under her arm before turning and walking back out of the room. A second later, she popped back in and smiled brightly as if the last few minutes had never happened. "Oh, I almost forgot! Happy birthday, Sherlock!" He grunted a reply as she left, already thoroughly focused on the envelope in his hand.

"Mrs. Hudson knows, too?" John asked. "Why did no one tell me?"

"Because it's still not important," He murmured absently. He turned the envelope over in his hands and examined it. No postmark of any kind, no signs that it had been folded or tossed recklessly into a mail bag, obviously delivered by a private messenger who took delicate care to keep it in perfect condition-

"There's no name on it," John said, puzzled. "And it's a bit late for a messenger to be doing rounds, isn't it?"

"What?" He turned it over and surely enough, there was no address or name to show who it had been sent to. "How did I not-?" Before Sherlock could wonder over how he'd missed that glaringly obvious fact, John interrupted again.

"It's probably just Mrs. Hudson trying to surprise you. Sweet of her." John stood and brushed the dust off his clothes. But Sherlock kept staring at the envelope. He held it to his nose and inhaled. This was definitely not from his landlady. The scent was incredibly familiar and somewhere inside himself he felt a pang of something he couldn't recognize. "Well? Open it."

Slowly, Sherlock stood and moved to the mantle. He pulled the knife from a stack of junk mail and used it to open the envelope carefully. Inside was a light blue piece of paper, folded neatly. When Sherlock finally opened it and saw the writing, he understood. The smell, the obsessively neat folding, leaving his name off the envelope, it all made sense. He stared for a long time at the writing, not reading the words, but reading the author. The writing itself was neat, written with black ink from a regular ballpoint pen. He admired the simplicity of it all. He knew it was intentional. A woman had written it, he could tell, and she'd been calm, but at places he could tell she'd been hesitant. Not sure what to say, how to say it, how much she could give away. And in the end, she really hadn't written much. But he knew it would be enough.

_Been a while. They fixed me for a few years, but I missed it all terribly. Especially you. I took back control, but now I'm not so sure about anything. It took me a few weeks to find me, but I think you can do better. You have until 9 o'clock tonight to come and change my mind. I'm sure you can manage it, and if not then it's not a problem. If I only get to tell you one last thing, then I guess it's that I'm sorry. And whatever happens, I forgive you. Mycroft too. It's all water under the bridge as far as I'm concerned. _

_All the best – EM_

_PS- Happy Birthday_

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked quickly. He knew exactly where she'd be. He wondered why she'd made it so easy. Maybe she was losing it, or she really was desperate for him to come and find her.

"Around half past 8. Why?" Without answering, Sherlock darted to his room and changed his shirt as quickly as possible. When he returned, he passed John again and ran down the stairs. John rushed to follow and grabbed his own jacket before running out onto the street behind Sherlock, who was already fully prepared in his jacket and scarf. "Who is that from? What are we doing?" John asked. A cab finally stopped and they climbed in. Sherlock pulled the letter out of his pocket.

"Going to meet an old friend," He turned to the front to direct the cabbie. "Take us to the Tower Bridge."


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again. In case anybody was paying attention and realized that I said the letter was blue in the last chapter, feel free to pretend that never happened. It was lavender, obviously. Psh, I wouldn't make such a ridiculously huge mistake like that. That would be unthinkable. (But it really has been bothering me so I knew I had to say something.)

Oh and perhaps I should mention I don't own Sherlock. Not even on DVD or anything. Unfortunately. Well, on to the story.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Traffic was making the drive far too slow. They were only halfway there and it was already ten minutes to nine.

"Sherlock, what is going on?"

"This is taking too long," Sherlock said, ignoring John completely. He opened the door to the cab and began sprinting. John shouted an apology, tossing whatever money he had in his wallet to the furious driver, and rushed to keep up.

Alleys, people, cars, shops, everything blurred past as they ran. John had no idea how he managed to stay close enough to follow Sherlock, but he knew something important was happening and he wouldn't let Sherlock handle it alone. It felt like they ran for hours until they finally got to the bridge. John saw why there had been so much traffic; people finding alternate routes home. Half the road over the bridge was closed off by police and a crowd had come to watch whatever was happening.

As they came closer, he could see a woman standing on a ledge at the side of the bridge. She looked young, probably not even thirty, and John felt his heart sink. The death of a young person was always harder for people to come to terms with. He kept following as Sherlock pushed through the crowd of onlookers and police until they were stopped by the head officer.

"You can't come any closer," The officer told them simply. Sherlock took a step back and examined him. The man was older, balding visible even with his hat on, somewhere in his sixties, married with two- No. Sherlock could have kept going, but he stopped himself. There were more important things to do.

"I know her. You have to let me through."

"If that's true I can let you speak to her, but-" The officer was cut short by the voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Let him through." He was standing on the other side of a police car, keeping the curious crowd at bay. "If anyone can think of a way to get her down safely, it's him." The other officer looked at him skeptically for a moment before letting him pass. Sherlock looked over at Lestrade and nodded in thanks. John followed automatically, but Sherlock turned and stopped him.

"Stay here. I can get her down, but I have to speak to her alone." John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. "Please." Slightly shocked by the display of human emotion he was seeing from his best friend, John nodded and stepped back next to Lestrade.

"What'd he say?" Lestrade asked.

"He said please." They looked at each other for a moment, and then turned to watch Sherlock start towards the woman on the ledge. She was standing with her back to the whole scene, her hands clasped together in front of her. She balanced easily in a pair of black combat boots that looked out of place with her lacy purple dress. Her brown hair danced wildly in the wind and the dress fluttered around her knees, but other than that she was perfectly still and composed. She was waiting.

Sherlock went towards her slowly. He saw her turn her wrist to check her watch and turn it back with a small sigh.

"Eleanora," he said loudly. She turned and her eyes found him immediately. He was the only one inside the semi-circle of police and nosy civilians, all of whom had gone utterly silent. There was light on her from the bridge and at least half a dozen high-powered police lights, making her look washed-out and tired, but as soon as she saw him she smiled and looked like herself again.

"I started to doubt you'd show up. I tried not to make a scene, but apparently it's frowned upon to jump off London's most famous bridge." She gestured to the crowd. "I guess they're worried about me."

"You love making a scene. That's why you chose this place. And most of them probably want to see you fall," Sherlock said truthfully. "People love tragedy. Car wrecks, reality television, girls jumping off bridges-"

"_Women_ jumping off bridges," She interrupted. "I think you can see that we've both grown, Sherlock. In fact, you're another year older today." She was clouding the horror of the situation with small talk, but she was right. They were both much older. When he'd last seen her, she'd been a girl, or at least she'd looked like one. She had matured, become a real woman. Her body had finally managed to catch up with her mind.

"Women jumping off bridges, then. Violence. Sport. People enjoy it on a primal level."

"Yes. They do. We fear death and at the same time we love to watch it happen. People are fascinating." And then she looked past him, into the crowd, and stared silently for a long time, letting her mind wander. Then she shook herself and took a deep breath, finding her center once again. "How's Mycroft?" She asked thoughtfully, turning her attention back to him.

"He's doing well. Major government position." He kept talk of Mycroft short. It was a sore subject for both of them. She chuckled.

"Of course. He was always so quick to get involved in everyone else's lives…" She trailed off and stared at the crowd again. Sherlock got the idea that she was finding it hard to think, which worried him. "Who's the soldier?" She pointed to John. "He's with you, isn't he? I'm up here on the brink of death. Everyone in that crowd is staring at me and he's watching you."

"Yes. John Watson. We're flat mates… And he's a friend," Sherlock watched her expression shift from surprise to happiness. She smiled warmly at him.

"A friend. Good. He looks like he could keep you in check. You're doing well then." He nodded.

"And you're not." It wasn't a question. She was standing on the edge of a bridge in the middle of the night; he didn't have to read her to know that she wasn't well. And he wouldn't read her if he didn't need to. He respected her too much to do that. She began pacing and he watched carefully to make sure she didn't start losing her balance.

"I suppose I was doing well, in a way. I'd still been living with my parents. They liked to keep an eye on me and make sure I was taking my meds… and going to therapy." She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. "I really can't tell you how many times that idiot therapist tried to tell me you were just part of some rebellious phase. Then after I finished school I got a boring job in a book shop near home and that's where I was until last week. It was all so horribly dull. I, of course, had no idea how dull it really was until the pharmacy made a mistake and I ended up taking a few weeks' worth of sugar pills. Everything worked out of my system and the curtain rose on the world." Her voice was forcibly nonchalant and he could tell she was frustrated.

"They've kept you on drugs for all these years?" He understood why she was upset. She wouldn't have noticed the absence of her racing thoughts while she was on the drugs, maybe she would have even welcomed the change, but now that she had them back she realized how empty life had been.

"They started them as soon as we moved. By force at first, and then I started on my own because I felt relieved. Like the pressure in my head was finally gone. All the boredom at having nothing to do with my mind… It disappeared," She closed her eyes and exhaled, then opened them again. "It was relief and relaxation and I was _normal_. I wasn't miles away from everyone. I didn't read people or belittle them or accidentally make them hate me. It felt good. I liked it."

"But they made the mistake and it all came back. The boredom and the constant thinking and noticing came racing back and you realized how much you missed the chaos… And you came to me?"

"Who else would I go to?"

"We haven't spoken for ten years years. Why come to me?" She stopped pacing and was quiet for a long time.

"Nine years, eleven months, eight days. You know why I came to you. But you're angry."

"No, I-"

"You are. I can see it in your eyes. You're angry that I didn't come to you sooner. You're angry because you don't understand why I haven't spoken to you." He didn't deny it. She knew him better than anyone. Sometimes better than he knew himself. He could pretend that not understanding didn't bother him, but she knew it did because she'd always felt the same way. "I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"Why wouldn't I?" He asked. Sherlock had begun to feel something besides anger. He knew it was because of her. She'd been complicating his life and his mind with feelings since the day they met. "How could you possibly have thought that?"

"I was stupid!" She screamed suddenly. "I was boring and average and so horribly far beneath you! You always hated that people couldn't see what you saw. It drove you mad!" She was shaking -shivering- and he realized how cold she must have been. She turned and looked out onto the water again. "I didn't want you to think of me like that… Like this. God, I'm still so stupid." She rubbed her face and groaned.

Sherlock could feel the anxiety coming off of her and the tense anticipation of the crowd. She'd turned away and they all sensed that he was losing her. Any second now, she could snap and they'd get their show, they'd get to watch her fall. And they were hungry for it. It disgusted him.

"Come down, Eleanora," he said softly. "Come down and we can talk properly. We can go for dinner. Anything you want. Just come down, please." She was rocking on her feet, a sign that she was nervous, and when she turned he saw that she'd started crying.

"I'm not sure I can." Her voice was so quiet he'd barely heard her. They looked directly at each other and he felt her breaking. He couldn't go off of basic observation any longer. If he wanted to get her down safely, he needed to read her for real.

It took him seconds to figure out what was going on in her mind. She was freezing. She'd been standing on that ledge for half an hour, waiting for him. Not sure if he'd be there to help her. She'd probably spent that whole time thinking about her life, talking herself into jumping and making peace with her death. Eleanora had always been deeply frustrated with her existence and the years of mind-numbing drugs would have made it worse. They'd slowed her down and damaged her. He supposed they'd even destroyed some of her memory, blurred the years together, keeping her in a permanent fog. The drugs had taken away the only thing about herself she'd ever been proud of and practically killed her already. Deciding to jump would have been the easy part. If he hadn't shown up, she would have done it and not had to worry about anything else. Just the rush of wind through her hair and the cutting chill of the water for the instant she'd feel it.

Death was easy, something she could face, but the idea of stepping down and facing her life and her newly-returned mind? Going back to the sudden, crushing, force of all that thinking? It was too much. She was absolutely terrified.

He knew what he had to do. He finally closed the distance between them and was relieved when she didn't immediately throw herself over the edge.

"Eleanora." She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if the way he said her name had caused her physical pain that she was trying to will away. "I'm here now. I don't think you're stupid. I think you're scared."

"But I shouldn't be. It's ridiculous. It's _stupid._"

"I used to think so too. But it's not. It's human. I learned that recently. It's a sign that you're alive and you're thinking. You understand pain, and that's what fear is in the end. Fear is a mental pain. It's the pain of facing something you're not ready for, or experiencing something you don't understand, or believing you're alone in the world, or that no one could possibly understand you." He grabbed her hands. "But I understand you, Eleanora. I've always understood you just as you've understood me and I need you to trust me now. I promise you that if you come down, you won't have to be alone. And you won't have to be afraid."

Everything stopped around them. The wind stilled and the crowd held their breath. Sherlock kept his eyes on hers and there was nothing but silence. She sniffed, but she'd stopped crying. She was searching his face, looking into his mind, desperately trying to find the truth in his words. This, their connection, was what it all came down to. They'd been apart for years. He only prayed she would still trust him. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, she spoke.

"I'm not afraid… Take me home."


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello there, I've been a bit busy with school and a birthday and I'm sure it's going to get worse before it gets better. This is just an obligatory warning to say I may be infrequent with updates over the next month or so. I will try desperately to keep up though. Also, thanks so much to those who've favorite and followed!_

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The world started moving again and Sherlock pulled Eleanora down as quickly as he could. Keeping an arm around her, he led her away from the edge. One of the officers had pulled a blanket from a police car and gave it to Sherlock to stop her from shivering. The crowd was cheering. Reporters pushed forward and shouted their questions, trying to get a statement from either of them.

"Why were you going to jump?"

"How did you get her down?"

"Was this a plea for attention?"

Even with all the noise and cold, everything was surreal and muffled. Eleanora buried her face into his shoulder and kept walking. He needed to get her away from all the people.

"John!" He yelled. Hearing his cue, John pushed out of the mass next to them and started shouting to clear the path. With his help, they finally got though the crowd and found Lestrade.

"I can give you a ride." He opened the back of a police car and ushered them in. Sherlock got in first and Eleanora slid in beside him. John was the last to get in and he began looking her over as soon as the door was closed. Her eyes were brown and bloodshot and they gave away how exhausted she was. She was still shivering violently, despite the blanket and how closely she was pressed against Sherlock, and he worried instantly that she might be going into some kind of shock. John could see that she didn't appear to be injured, though he noticed that there were old and fading scars across much her exposed skin.

"Are you alright?" He asked Eleanora. "What's your name? My name's John Watson, I'm a friend of Sherlock's and I'm a doctor." She pulled the blanket tighter. Sherlock tugged off his scarf and wrapped it around her neck.

"Eleanora McIntyre, I'm fine, and I know who you are. Army doctor?" She turned to Sherlock and he nodded. "Soldier plus doctor equals army doctor. I consider that a grey area. Technically I was right." Sherlock made a noise of agreement and looked out the window. She pressed her palms to her eyes and let out a shaky breath. "God, so many people."

"Eleanora McIntyre?" Lestrade asked from the front of the car. They'd started moving and he was focused on the road, but he looked back at her in the mirror. "You're not the one-"

"Thank you Lestrade, but shouldn't you pay closer attention to your driving?" Sherlock met his eye in the mirror and Lestrade looked away. Something in the viciously protective way he'd stopped Lestrade's question had sent warning bells through John's head. The only other time he'd ever seen Sherlock so scarily protective was when he'd thrown a CIA agent out of a window for hurting Mrs. Hudson. The silence in the car lasted the whole way to Baker Street and when the three of them got out of the car, Sherlock still didn't say a word to Lestrade.

"Thanks, Greg," John mumbled.

"Keep an eye on both of them," he said as John shut the door. Before he had time to open it again and ask what Lestrade meant, the car was already driving down the street.

When he turned, he saw that Sherlock was leading Eleanora through the door with a hand on her back. Her shaking hadn't ceased and he was sure he'd watched her stumble on the step. He followed them up the stairs cautiously, watching for any signs that the woman in front of him might fall. Sherlock showed her into the apartment ahead of them and lead her to his chair in the living room. She sat down and Sherlock examined her for a moment before turning on his heel and disappearing into the kitchen.

For a few minutes, John stood in front of the sofa, watching Eleanora as she looked about the room. She appeared forcibly calm and observant. He could see her taking deep and measured breaths, clenching her hands into fists and carefully relaxing them. There was a dangerous atmosphere growing around her, like a tension that would soon come to an explosive result. As he finished that thought, she doubled over and began running her hands roughly through her hair. She was pulling hard at the long brown locks and then clawing at her face. Her breathing came in short gasps and Sherlock bounded immediately into the room, completely aware of what was going on.

"Eleanora, you need to calm down." He knelt in front of her, locking her legs against the chair with his own, and grabbed her wrists. She was struggling violently against him. His grip on her was dangerously tight and John knew that she could break one or both of her wrists if Sherlock didn't let go.

"Sherlock, you're going to hurt her!"

"If I let go, she'll hurt herself worse than I could," He said over the sound of Eleanora's enraged growls. And she was growling. She looked like a furious and terrified wild animal, fighting for her life. Sherlock looked at her, completely ignoring the fact that she was thrashing and crying, and spoke just as he would have to an unreasonable child. "Calm down. Breathe, Eleanora. You are here with me. Think. Just think about where you are. You know you're safe." She didn't stop. In fact, she began screaming with a sound that was almost painfully raw and inhuman. Sighing with frustration, Sherlock released one of her arms and slapped her across the face. The sound echoed eerily through the apartment as Eleanora fell silent and stopped struggling.

"What the hell was that for?" John screamed. Sherlock ignored John. He kept his hand on her left wrist and examined her arm as she sat hunched over in the chair and began to cry silently. Finding what he expected, he held her arm out for John to see. John was getting ready to scream at him again when he saw the mark on a vein inside her elbow; a small, red dot that was clearly from an injection. "She's on some kind of drugs?" John asked.

"Yes. She's always been keen on heroin," he said, sounding disappointed. "Relaxation and the possibility for euphoria. She does it to stop the chaos. You'd think that after all the fuss she made about wanting her mind back that she'd be less intent on killing it."

"She's a heroin addict?"

"Not anymore, though she could easily go back to it if she doesn't let it all out now and stay clean." He stood abruptly and walked off in the direction of his bedroom. John stayed and watched Eleanora as she cried. He wondered how she'd become so broken, though some deep part of him understood completely and was trying to deny it. Somehow, directly or not, he knew Sherlock had caused this. The man in question reappeared with a syringe in his hand.

"Whatever that is, you can't give it to her," John said firmly, his medical instincts kicking in again. "She's already experiencing the influence of something powerful and there's no telling what could happen if you give that to her. You could kill her!" Sherlock pushed past him.

"I've seen this happen before. And honestly, I think I know how to handle her a bit better than you, John." He bent and quickly injected her opposite arm with the contents of the syringe. There was a practiced nonchalance about the way he did it, like he'd done the same thing a hundred times before. The thought didn't comfort John at all. After a moment, Eleanora started leaning forward in the chair and Sherlock caught her. "Mild sedative," he said. "It will make her sleep while the drug works itself out of her system. That could take a while, so she'll most likely wake up before it's gone. Withdrawal could set in, but it won't be as harsh as for a routine addict because she's been off it for so long. Still, you might not want to bother her tomorrow. She's hell when she comes down." He lifted her easily into his arms and carried her to his room. John followed and watched quietly from the doorway as Sherlock set her on the bed. He was being unusually gentle, even though he'd slapped her in the face less than ten minutes ago. He unlaced her boots and set them together on the floor before pulling down the covers and tucking her in. John saw him pause, staring at her with an unreadable expression, and then adjust the pillows beneath her head. Then he turned and looked at John.

"You two were a couple, weren't you?" John asked.

"No. That's not the word I would use," Sherlock responded simply. He brushed past John as he walked out of the room.

"What word would you use then?" John's question was ignored.

"I'll stay awake in case she gets up in the night. If I need you, I'll call you down." He picked the empty syringe off the table by his chair and threw it into the biohazard bin in the kitchen. In any other home it would have seemed absurd to have a bin like that but considering that the fridge of 221B was at least half full of human body parts at all times, John knew the normal rules didn't apply.

"But-"

"It's getting late."

"No it isn't. It's only-" Sherlock cut him off again.

"It's getting late," he repeated. John understood. He wanted to be alone.

"Alright. I'll be just upstairs."

"Yes, obviously." He sat down in a kitchen chair in front of his microscope, picking up on whatever he'd left there hours or maybe days ago. John opened his mouth to say something else, but decided against it and made his way out of the flat and up to his own room, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, so here's an update. FINALLY. As I said, I've been ridiculously busy. Though I would rather have been writing this than doing pretty much anything else. But here it is! Yay! Read!

-x-x-x-x-x-

Lestrade stared down at the file on his desk. The pictures of the young woman stared back. She was only sixteen, but in every photograph where she was awake her dark eyes were haunted and ancient.

She'd been brought to the hospital half-dead in the middle of the night. Her roommate at boarding school had found her unconscious on the floor of their shared bathroom, barely breathing. Later they were all informed that she had overdosed on heroin and had been found just in time. After hours of close calls and near-fatal complications, the hospital staff said it was almost a miracle she'd made it though. Her parents had called the police in the next morning and demanded that charges be filed against her "boyfriend." Lestrade thought they might only want to charge him with selling her the drugs until he'd gone to the hospital to see her.

The girl was thin, too thin, and her body was covered by painful looking bruises and gashes and scars. Apparently the man-not a boy, but a grown man- had been beating her for months without anyone noticing. Most of the damage was done in areas that could be hidden easily by her clothes. They'd been smart about it, then.

He looked at a picture of her back, where the man she loved had dragged a knife repeatedly through her flesh. Long, angry, red wounds trailed from her shoulders to the base of her spine and there were scars to show where the same thing had been done many times before. Some of them had been stitched, but most of them were too old and there was nothing that could be done. Next to that picture was one of the left side of her face where there was a purple and yellow bruise the size of a man's fist across her cheekbone.

Eleanora McIntyre had been savagely beaten again and again. She had accepted it fully and allowed it to happen. For a girl with a genius IQ, she'd been surprisingly stupid and completely in denial of the fact that she was being abused.

How had he not recognized her on the bridge? He'd been such an idiot. Sherlock's reaction should have been a clue. He'd never looked so genuinely concerned with another human being. Sometimes he looked at John Watson that way but as far as Greg knew, Eleanora was the only other exception.

She looked almost the same. He supposed she had gone up to a normal weight and if anything she seemed much healthier. Perhaps she really had been getting better. He wondered how she could've ended up in this state again. He'd been deeply disturbed by her case ten years ago. Not because of the abuse or the suicide attempt, but because of her reaction to it all. She'd completely defended her attacker. Later, after there had been evaluations on both Eleanora and the man she'd been with, the situation had been fully explained to him and he had at least partially understood and accepted the story. But he could still remember how angry she had been, and how adamantly she had fought the charges.

"_You don't understand why it happened," Eleanora told him. She was leaning forward in her chair in the interrogation room, speaking slowly and forcefully to Lestrade as if he was too stupid to follow her at normal speed. "He didn't do it to hurt me."_

"_Well why did he do it then?" Lestrade asked. She narrowed her eyes at him and a chill ran up his spine. Something about her gaze made him believe she was looking into him rather than at him._

"_Everything is still so simple to you. You see it all in black and white, don't you? Just the good and the bad. But that's not how it is with people. That's not how they think. Moral lines are never black and white. Facts and circumstance color the situation," She leaned back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair, accidentally brushing the bruise on her face and wincing in pain. "Sometimes those colors just aren't the ones everyone else would like to see."_

"_What colored your situation, then, Eleanora? What were the circumstances?"_

"_The circumstances of this aren't clear or defined, they're…" she struggled for the word. He could tell the idea she was playing with was something foreign to her. "Sentiment," she said at last, as if she were admitting defeat. "The circumstances involved emotions and whatever problems I have. Problems that have been around a long time. They didn't even start with him. He's not involved in this."_

"_If he isn't involved then who gave you those scars on your back or your arms? Who turned you onto the drugs? Who made that mark on your face or that ring of bruises around your neck?" He was getting angry at her. How could she have allowed him to terrorize her like that? He knew without a doubt that it was just as much her fault as the man who'd hurt her. "The doctors say you were-"_

"_No. Don't you dare," she warned. Her eyes flashed dangerously and he lowered his voice._

"_Is that why you did it?" He asked. She was silent, seething with fury, but lacking the words to explain herself to him. Her mind had rationalized everything so well that she was still in denial. But she was intelligent, too. She wouldn't say anything because she knew what he was thinking and that he couldn't possibly be made to understand the way she saw it. "He was abusing you." She shook her head, still looking at him with disgust._

"_You have no idea what happened before I met him and you have no idea what happened while I was with him." She was suddenly speaking in a low hiss and he could hear the frustration and venom in every syllable. "Did he beat me? Yes, he did. Did I ask for it? No... I begged for it." He knew when she finished that she wouldn't respond to any more questions. She had crossed her arms and was staring past him at a point on the wall. He stood up from the table and shook his head at the other officers he knew were in the observation room. Eleanora had been damaged badly, both physically _and_ mentally. _

_He walked into the observation room to find himself in the middle of an argument._

"_That bastard deserves to be put on trial and locked up!"_

"_He's already been put on trial and I have decided his punishment." A tall man in a suit was standing perfectly composed in front of Lestrade's chief and all the other officers had disappeared._

"_And what authority do you have?" Lestrade asked boldly. The man turned and looked him up and down. He got the same exposed feeling he'd had when Eleanora stared at him and his boldness began to fade. He looked away, towards the window, and saw that Eleanora was now staring into the room as if she could actually see everything. The tall man followed his gaze and he seemed to lock eyes with the girl through the one-sided glass._

"_You'll find that her parents will have dropped the charges by midday tomorrow. She will be given the best psychiatric care and medication the country can provide and in time she will live a normal life."_

"_And the man who did this to her? What will happen to him?" The tall man sighed and turned away from the window. Eleanora did the same, as if they were somehow mentally linked._

"_He is being dealt with." He gave the chief of police a dangerous look. "And that is all you need to know." He made to walk out of the room, then stopped and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card and held it out to Lestrade. "Not many people are important enough to have this number, but I want you to take it. If there are any further altercations with Ms. McIntyre, I want _you_ involved and no one else. And in the instance that someone here gives you trouble concerning that order, you are to call me and the situation will be taken care of. Is that clear?" Lestrade took the card and nodded._

"_Yes, sir." The man gave a tight smile._

"_Excellent. Good day to you both." And with that, he turned and left. Lestrade looked down at the card in his hand. It was plain white with only a number and a name printed in glossy black ink. He sighed at the name; Mycroft Holmes. Of course, he'd been here to defend his family, not the well-being of the girl currently drumming her fingers on the table of the interrogation room. The girl who had nearly died almost a week ago. No, he'd been saving the brute that had attacked her and driven her to it. _

Then again_, he thought bitterly, _I don't understand the circumstances_, _do I?

_He looked through the interrogation room window again and saw Eleanora let go for just a second. She exhaled and he saw the mask of strength drop from her face. She didn't look angry or hateful, she looked like a broken young girl, destroyed by the man she'd chosen to love. The next instant she composed herself again and stared blankly at the table. But in that short time he'd seen the damage, and he knew deep down that even this all-powerful Mycroft and his team of experts could never fix what Sherlock Holmes had done to her._


End file.
